


Renewal; or, Vriska and Kanaya are Inimitably Classy Ladies

by Varynova



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Not Canon Compliant, POV First Person, Shamelessly self-indulgent, Unnecessary Descriptions of Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varynova/pseuds/Varynova
Summary: As long as I'm finally diving into the ol' AO3 game, I may as well upload this old fic I wrote on Tumblr as an art-trade for NorthernVehemence back in 2012.I have not edited it; this is essentially a preservation effort in the assumption that I'll never return to Tumblr.  I wrote it before Rose and Kanaya were even dating, if you can believe it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As long as I'm finally diving into the ol' AO3 game, I may as well upload this old fic I wrote on Tumblr as an art-trade for NorthernVehemence back in 2012.  
> I have not edited it; this is essentially a preservation effort in the assumption that I'll never return to Tumblr. I wrote it before Rose and Kanaya were even dating, if you can believe it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternian casual romantic dining facilities are much like Alternian cuisine; flat, stuffy, filled with slimes of innumerable unpleasant origins, and with a tendency to fight back.

My Wardrobifier broke. I do not simply mean that the garment-editing device has gone haywire; I mean to say that the garment-editing device has gone haywire in such a precisely unpredictable fashion that my fashion proper is entirely irretrievable. I cannot stand that clothing which my fellow trolls seem to take to so easily; at the instant my accessorial rotator froze, it insisted on that drab, unimaginative attiring, and I simply had to alter it. I had just finished playing Miss Meddlesome McFussyfangs again, and my mood was likely as foul as my moirail’s temperament seems to perpetually be. So I took to my technological tormentor with a modicum of success, and when I finally forced the machine to accept another design it decided to get stuck on a private flatigious excitement of mine. At least it matches my colours.  
Suits are not my style, I think; they are far too… phlegmatic and flamboyant for my sensibilities. The pants I had stolen from an Alternian classic of filmic history; Troll Julianne Moore and Troll Alec Baldwin both wore a pair of pinstriped, fitted trousers in ‘Wherein A Dysfunctional Couple Trades Garments And Personalities Following The Death Of Their Son By Heart Attack in Order to Revitalise Their Flagging Commitment To Each Other, Though it Does Not Work; Troll Julianne Moore Remarries With Troll Humphrey Bogart In Defiance of Social Norms Regarding his Age; Romantic Undertones are Undercut by the Constant Product Placements From Your Favourite Brand of Cola, Grub Lube; Troll Judi Dench Drinks Herself to Death’. I cannot disagree with Troll Alec Baldwin’s choice of Troll Julianne Moore’s lower garments; they suit my lipstick well and evince exactly the sort of panache I strive for.  
The blue undershirt was not from this film, I am afraid. Instead I cribbed it from an earlier suit I had crafted, entirely in blue hues to match a friend’s symbological colour. The garnet-red heels were my addition, but I believe that they suit the look well even as they do not compliment the white, broad tie. Atop this, I thought a striped jacket to match the pants was opportune in its obviousness. The fedora completes the look, with the obvious holes for my horns. A hatband in blue, matching the shirt, finalises the whole attire.  
It is classy. Without a doubt.

Truth be told, I think it might have been the clothing that inspired me to eschew my boundaries with Vriska Serket; though we were comfortable in our relations, cordial though they were, I had to propose that she and I take a short trip to a food service location in the proximity of her residence. When at first she showed interest, I told her that I would absolutely enjoy meeting her for a date, but with one additional condition. Surprisingly, she agreed to both my demands and my advances.

I swept my hat down over one eye, and at that moment she draped her articulated metal hand over my left fleshy torso protrusion. I remarked that perhaps she could save herself mortifying embarrassment if she removed her hand from my chest, but she merely flipped her hair out of her living eye. She looked away from me, and I smirked as we began to walk. She looped an arm around my back in response to my jibe, and I returned the grasp. Her unpracticed stride and obvious unease stood out against her regal bearing and that typical air of haught she carried. She had allowed me to do her hair as well as dressing her up in the leg-slit dress and stockings and tall, tall shoes. Waving, bobbing curls certainly suited her prideful nobility. I expected that those heels would be impractical for descending elevated surface-rungs, however, and in our embrace we found ourselves almost forgo balance several times in reaching the lowest level. I caught her in my arms as she toppled; she almost smiled.

Alternian casual romantic dining facilities are much like Alternian cuisine; flat, stuffy, filled with slimes of innumerable unpleasant origins, and with a tendency to fight back. I do not enjoy them, and I suspect that Miss Serket chose this one because she knew we would be similarly out of our normal environments. She fidgeted in her seat, and the noticeable discomfort Vriska displayed was neither assisted by the attire I had chosen for her nor our surroundings. For the first time I felt self-conscious about having asked her for this arduous evening. Nevertheless, ordering food (with the help of the service robot) assisted our conversation, and soon she sat back in her lush chair, divulging for me precisely why she had endeavoured for a ‘date’ this evening.

The conversation flitted, and all of it revolved around her. This was unsurprising: not only did I expect it but I enjoyed it, in a turnabout sort of way. If someone is at ease enough to describe themselves to you, it can be seen as a sort of exercise in trust, and not only because she believed me to be her moirail. What turned more fruitful, however, was how she moved through the evening. It gratified me to see her for once relishing in her appearance. For an instant I got the impression that she actually enjoyed looking good, but usually hid behind the blasé clothing of our kin. The reflective moment passed, and she continued telling me about some particular conquest that reminded her of me. Perhaps she intended to flatter me by discussing how she’d fed another intellectual to her guardian, and I simply nodded in appreciation. But she sat forward in her chair, finally meeting my gaze with her own, and in her silence something sparked. We both grinned, and I let her continue her boasting.

As we left the facility, Vriska made a distinct sound of displeasure– between a grunt and a sigh– and for once I was inclined to lend credence to it. She asked if I would mind if she removed the shoes, for walking down descending planes was difficult in them; I assented immediately, hoping she would feel more at ease. She set her legginged heels to the ground, and sighed in comfort. She looked up at me again, and we began the trek back to her hive. She stooped to ease one of her leggings, and as I bent over in kind she leaned in for a tentative kiss to my cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is dark, and thunder booms like endless cascades of wild terror outside. Never have I been one to sleep lightly (so long as a room is dark and quiet, and I have some space to put my thoughts together beforehand, and I can keep my hair from the slime) but this is one of those immensely rare nights when– even awake– I can feel that something disastrous is going to occur, and that it is imminent.
> 
> I bob up. No question of it; the gale howls and I hear the rampaging musclebeasts roam and trample. Out the window, though– and past the now-gutted husk of my lusus– a figure scuttles. My midnight peace is sundered.
> 
> Lean back in the respite chamber. A thudding at the steps. Draw blinders up, lights on, and turn just as the figure steps over my threshold.  
> …It’s her. It’s Vriska, at my doorstep.

More rotten luck, as she would say. I had resigned myself to helping her clean up after the death of her Lusus. A preemptive consequence, perhaps– that’s how Karkat put it. His poor luck, paralleling hers; or the other way around. Whose luck caused whose? Perhaps both of their guardians die. No bad luck at all.  
I toss in my recuperative pod.  
Switch the wardrobe to static; it’s repaired– the Wardrobifier– and I have restored my nightclothes to its rotation. I deeply enjoy the ruffling on this gown, and the calming royal blue of the sleeves and the breasts. It is silk. Troll Audrey Hepburn’s eye mask helps– from that movie… I forget which movie. It does not matter, I have never seen it.

It is dark, and thunder booms like endless cascades of wild terror outside. Never have I been one to sleep lightly (so long as a room is dark and quiet, and I have some space to put my thoughts together beforehand, and I can keep my hair from the slime) but this is one of those immensely rare nights when– even awake– I can feel that something disastrous is going to occur, and that it is imminent.

I bob up. No question of it; the gale howls and I hear the rampaging musclebeasts roam and trample. Out the window, though– and past the now-gutted husk of my lusus– a figure scuttles. My midnight peace is sundered.

Lean back in the respite chamber. A thudding at the steps. Draw blinders up, lights on, and turn just as the figure steps over my threshold.  
…It’s her. It’s Vriska, at my doorstep.  
Shake the slime from my gown, let it wick down the silk sides, green goo. I turn the corner, lean against the jamb with my arm under my chest, and gaze at her somberly. “Vriska. I am certainly hoping you have not taken my words of forboding to your core; I love you, but why have you come here?” I feel the sleep wick from my voice, just like the slime.  
“…C8n I come in……..?” Turned up collar. Sopping wet, unkempt hair. The drenched Aternian-rat-terrier look. I will push aside the will to fix her clothing, for a moment, and instead give her what she needs. “My lusus… you were right.”  
I wave her inside in silence, one beckoning hand swaying to cover my disbelief.  
“Were you in cahoots with… them?” she trudges out of the inky, dangerous blackness that is the Alternian nighttime. Despite myself, I smirk.  
“I have already told you,” I say plaintively, quietly. “There are no ‘them’ to speak of, and I have not the ‘cahoots’ with anybody.”  
“Stupid predictive 8itch.”  
“I say again, these are the facts of which I was aware prior. I was not the cause.”  
“Doesn’t change the fact,” she says, voice strained, leaning against the wall of my respite block, “that you told me it was coming.”  
“It’s the game we intend to play.” I close my eyes, for an instant, and turn to face her, still leaning in the portalframe.  
“I know. Aradia beamed Equius into it right before he crushed me.”  
“That sounds fortuitous.”  
“Wasn’t.”  
“I see.” I can offer her somewhere to rest, I suppose. Nurture the matesprit; or is that the moirail’s job? Am I still that to her, even if we’re…? I speak again. “Feel free… feel free to have a seat. Someplace. Aah, the corner.” Vriska nods, and slumps into the one against the pillows, nestling against my projected tome shelves. She leans back, looking at me like a dejected hatchling. “I… it will be okay.”  
“She’s dead.”  
“I know, but it will be–”  
“It was your fault.” She tosses her shoes aside.  
“What?” I take a step toward her, still bleary and confused. She peels off her soaking socks and starts to remove her jacket, coated in smeared blue blood. “I am sorry to hear that her life has ended, but you could not conceivably think that I–”  
“No, no. Of course not.” She shakes her head in fatigue, and glares at me again. I continue to cross the room, bump into the desk with the sewing machine on it. “It’s stupid, but… well, I can’t stop myself from wondering.”  
“Would you like some dry clothes?”  
“Honestly? I really need something comfortable. But I don’t wanna get your clothing gross. Besides, I don’t plan on going out again for a while.” She glances to the storm, but I know that it is not the reason for her reticence. I nod, trying to look sagely but likely only appearing nonplussed. Luckily I have spare pajamas: just the thing to comfort an ailing mate. I offer her the whole outfit, but instead of accepting two-piece nightwear she insists on only a large shirt in my signature green and her own undergarments. As she stands up from the pillows, I hand the shirt to her out of the wardrobe, and we both blush.  
She does not even turn away from me to change.  
Vriska glances from one arm to the other. Despite herself, she smiles, and it looks like her funk dissipates a little more. She rests against the bookcase, and watches me for ideas of what else we will accomplish next. I take her clothing, pile it up and make a mental note to hang it to dry later. In the meantime, I ask if she would like anything to eat.  
“I have Frozen Dairy Custard if you would like to consume it with me.”  
“what flavors y’have?”  
“Mint Chocolate Grub Chunk. I believe I possess others as well, but–”  
“Sounds great.”  
I haul the tub uncomplainingly from my Thermal Hull. It is a one-half Storage Cylinder– swirled jade-green and thick chocolatey fudgey brown with white speckled bits of grub. I wonder if they fabricate the trollspawn in these; probably not, if we still eat tuberpaste on grub loaf. It would be barbarism if not everyone did it, or if the flesh did not taste quite so delectable.  
It is delicious. After stealing a fingerful, I scoop both of us heaping hemispheres of the frosty foodstuff. We sit with the bowls in the pillows again, and she slumps against my shoulders, resting her head on my torso. She takes languid bites of the green, cold cream. "Mmmmmmmm.“ Like a roosting Alternian Avian, she looks at me askance, waiting for some cue to let her speak her mind.  
"You do not need to tell me about any of this if you do not care to, but I hope if I can help you will allow me to.”  
“…thanks.”  
We finish the custard in silence. I set down my porcelain dish and prop myself against the mound of pillows. Vriska reseats herself, resting against me comfortably again. I lay my hand against her brow, running it over her head, but before I can smooth her silky, thick hair I hit a coagulation of beastly blue blood. I see it now, the bilelike vitae of the spider, woven through the hair of my matesprit. Blue sludge like vomited prey. It chokes me for a minute before I ask her politely to lean the other way, and stand. “I think I am going to do your hair, if you would assent.”  
She does, nodding without words. She is almost placid. I drift, carrying my paddle-shaped brush back to her nest, and she turns away from me. I start at the ends, letting the pegs dig out hardened, phlegmy chunks as if in slow, ritual cleansing. They roll out quite easily– only wet with the rain, and barely mixed with the tangled hair– and it only takes minutes for me to clean her of the goo.  
“Is that not better?”  
She begins weeping, sobbing in gasps uncontrollable. I resist immediately apologising only because she folds forward onto her stomach, and my first worry is that she has had some form of psychotic episode. I put a hand to her crown of endless hair, brushing flowing waves away from the flow of her tears and embrace her from behind. I speak no words, hoping to comfort her even though I cannot possibly sympathise with her loss. As she rocks and sobs in sorrow, all I can do is hold her and whisper in her ear.  
All will be OK, all will be OK, all will be OK.  
She sniffles, and draws one protracted breath through her nostrils before leaning up against me. As she cuddles in, she turns up to me, and instantly I see the conflict in her eyes, that which bespeaks the begging of one who has never needed comfort before.  
“Would you… please, keep playing with my hair?” Her tears run, down into the collar of my shirt and across her flesh. She sets her jaw, watching me as I lower my head to press my lips against her forehead. “I know you already brushed it,” she mumbles to the floor, and I reseat myself on my knees. “But please.”  
“Of course, ‘sprit.”  
Despite herself, she chuckles. “Thanks, McFussyfangs.”  
I recall the first time she let me do her hair– no, she goaded me into it, I think. She still has the tendency to manipulate, and I am willingly manipulated. It was curls, very 190-sweeps-prior fashion. Classic, or at least ageless. For now, though, I run fingers through it just to ensure that it remains untangled, and gather it loosely at the nape of her neck to split to three strands and weave. Left over center, right over center, left over center. I can rest my stomach against her back, knees to one side in a bodily embrace. As her head wilts forward in rest, finally, I follow her, laying her hair over one shoulder but continuing to palm thirds of a thick, black braid across her body. I leave it untied, and after I finish it I simply hold her, and she rolls back against me, leaning into my embrace as we sigh gently in unison.  
She finally relaxes, and I feel her tense muscles ease against my sternum. We breathe together, then, and while our bodies mingle we can at least gain some small comforts for one night. I should ask if I can redo the braid before we sleep, then, and nuzzle her while we dream.


End file.
